Alexander.
He slid out from under the bed for a second time and dusted himself off. He looked down at Augustus's sprawled corpse, at the horrified look on the face. Sitting on the bed, he began a rigorous inspection of the body.
He sniffed at the mouth to check for any signs of poison; he ran his fingers through Augustus's wispy hair to see if he had been struck on the head; he lifted the bed-gown to look for any small puncture marks or bruises; and, finally, he examined the hands. There was nothing, not even a fibre trapped under the fingernails. There was not a mark on the body, and not the merest hint of blood. Aware that the chrism may have masked the smell of poison, Bartholomew prised the dead man's mouth open again, and, holding the lamp close, looked carefully for any redness or swelling on the tongue or gums. Nothing.
He began to feel foolish. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Henry Oliver's attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John's chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.
Bartholomew straightened Augustus's limbs, pulled the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window- shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.
He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.
It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.
As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.
The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students' tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room Bartholomew could not tell.
'You have been a damned long time!' Wilson snapped at Bartholomew as he approached. 'What of old Augustus? How is he?'
'Dead,' Bartholomew said bluntly, watching for any reaction on the smug face. There was nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.
'Well, it is for the best. The man had lived his threescore years and ten. What kept you?'
Bartholomew suddenly found himself being examined closely by Wilson's heavily-lidded eyes. He stared back, hoping that the dislike he felt for the man did not show in his face. 'I had to make my examinations,' he responded.
The lazy hooded eyes were deceptive, and Wilson pounced like a cat. 'What examinations?' he said sharply.
'What are you saying? Michael returned ages ago. What were you doing?'
'Nothing that need concern you, Master Wilson,' replied Bartholomew coldly. He resented being questioned so. For all Wilson knew, he might have been visiting a patient, and that was none of his business.
'Everything in the College concerns me, Doctor Bartholomew. You may have had a loose rein under Babington, but you are under my authority now. I ask again: what examinations?'
Bartholomew felt like emptying a nearby pitcher of wine over Wilson's head and walking out, but he had no wish to lose his fellowship over the likes of Wilson.
He swallowed down several retorts of which the facetious Brother Michael would have been proud, and answered calmly, 'Augustus had not died in his sleep as I thought he might. His eyes were open and he looked terrified.
It is my duty to make sure that the causes of death were natural.'
''Causes of death were natural',' Wilson mimicked with a sneer. 'And? What did you find?'
'Nothing.'
'Of course you found nothing,' spat Wilson. 'Augustus probably frightened himself to death with one of his flights of imagination. What did you expect?' He turned to Swynford and gave one of his superior smiles, as if mocking the skills of medicine over his own common sense.
'There could be all manner of causes, Master Wilson,' said Bartholomew, masking his anger with cold politeness. 'What if he had died of the plague that is said to be sweeping towards us from the west? I am sure you would want to be the first to know such things.'
Bartholomew had the satisfaction of seeing Wilson blanch when he mentioned the plague. Good, he thought, with uncharacteristic malice, now I know how to get under the skin of this arrogant man.
Wilson recovered his composure quickly. 'I hope you are not so poor a doctor as to confuse plague with old age,' he said, putting his elbows on the table and placing together flabby hands shiny with grease from his dinner.
Bartholomew smiled. 'Let us hope not, for all our sakes,' he replied. 'And now, sirs, I bid you good-night,' and with a small bow took his leave of the new Master.
If Wilson really did doubt his skills, Bartholomew hoped he would spend some restless nights wondering whether he was as safe as he might be from the plague that was rumoured to be devastating the West Country.
He paused to ask Aelfrith if he would keep vigil over Augustus. The friar looked straight ahead of him while Bartholomew imparted his news, and then rose and left the hall without a word.
Bartholomew walked back past Brother Michael and heard the monk follow him out into the cool night air.
'Are you well, Brother?' Bartholomew asked, trying to sound casual.
'Now, yes. I do not know what happened to me in there. Something about the old man's face. I am sorry I left in a rush, but I thought I was going to be sick,'
Michael had looked sick in the room. Perhaps he had over-eaten at the feast. It would not be the first time the monk had made himself ill with his greed for food and wine. 'I think some of the students will be sick in the morning, by the look of them now,' said Bartholomew, with a smile. 'I am willing to wager that none of them attend your lecture at six tomorrow morning.'
'And neither will I,' replied Michael. 'Our fine new Master has given all Michaelhouse scholars and masters tomorrow off. Is this the way he intends to continue the academic tradition of Michaelhouse?'
'Michael!' laughed Bartholomew. 'You are too incautious by far. Watch what you say, for shadows may have sharp hearing.'
Brother Michael's fat face suddenly became serious.
'More than we think, Matt. Heed your own words!'
With that, he hurried over to the stairs that led up to his room, leaving Bartholomew standing in the courtyard alone.
Bartholomew rose with the first grey light of dawn the next morning to find that a small core of students were still enjoying Wilson's wine; he could hear them singing in the hall. Many had not been in their beds for more than two or three hours, Abigny among them. The philosopher lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly as Bartholomew went to find some breakfast.
As he walked across the courtyard, Bartholomew breathed in deeply. The air was cold and fresh, quite different from how it would be later when the hot sun would make the flies swarm over the putrid ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge.
He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath that ran around the courtyard, savouring the early morning, and admiring, as he often did, the fine building that was the centre of Michaelhouse. The north wing, in which Bartholomew lived, was the newest part, and was two storeys of dark yellow stone with slender arched windows. Regularly spaced along the front were three doorways leading to barrel-vaulted porches. Each porch contained doors leading to the two rooms on the lower floor, and a wooden staircase leading to two more rooms on the upper floor. The rooms were small, cramped, and in short supply, and Bartholomew felt himself fortunate that he shared his room with Abigny, and not three students, as did Father William.
